Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes. Yay me! Though I would like to say the gifts were a bit on the skimpy side. That's okay, though, you have plenty of time to plan for next year. Just kidding, I'll happily accept late gifts.
In other news I've found another victim, I mean beta reader to look over the spelling and gramatical trainwreck that is this story . So a big thanks goes out to The Sarcastic Typo.
No go read and enjoy or at least read it and pretend to enjoy. I need a nap.
Chapter XXXIV
Killer Insight
She had the television on for white noise. It was a habit she had picked up a few years back, and now she couldn't seem to do any work without its constant drone. She wasn't working right now, but she'd left it on anyway if only to drown out the rest of the apartment complex's noises. Bare feet tapped on the faded linoleum of the small apartment's kitchenette. A window unit on the far wall belched out enough cold air to keep the five feet around it comfortably cool, but the rest of the small apartment relied on fans to stir the oppressively hot air around.
It was Saturday and the weekend, in all its precious glory, was hers. Hers to do with what she would. Tonight would be prime time for club crawling. All the freaks came out for a hot Vegas night. Unfortunately this weekend, like most, she was stuck inside, working. It wouldn't be so bad if her roommate didn't flaunt the fact that she didn't have to do anything like that. Freaking theater majors. It wasn't even midterms and she was already busting her ass to keep up with her full load of classes, not to mention TAN and her tutoring duties. Just one more semester and she was done with school and with Vegas. She would head out to LA; that's where all the real action went on any way.
Bowl of cereal in hand she headed over to the crumbling, lumpy piece of junk parading around as a futon underneath the air conditioner and settled down with the thick book she needed to finish for her term paper for her Women's Lit class. She folded her bare legs underneath her and twisted the chain she wore as she read. The rings that dangled off of the tightly twisted gold rope chain clinked against her own high school class ring. She reached blindly for her highlighter and her stack of post-it notes, still reading. She might have spent the entire day reading—the book was rather hefty—but the television caught her attention. It had been on whatever channel her roommate had watched last. Her roommate had poor taste in entertainment, and there was one of the endless, mundane celebrity count downs were on. She personally could care less about the Britneys and Brangelinas of Hollywood, but some people, even those who had degrees, were just that: materialistic, vapid unwashed masses of morons. What had caught her attention, however, was the fact that the countdown had been interrupted by a newsflash. She set aside her book and the soggy cereal to look. The so-called reporter, another in an endless parade of ex-MTV VJ has-beens, stood in front of a stock photo of Vegas. Despite his claims of being in Vegas live, she knew better. The Rampart was still in the skyline; it was an obvious giveaway.
"I'm here inVegas where this story has just absolutely snowballed almost overnight. Alex Dupree: model, activist and millionaire has become, to quote the LVPD, a person of interest ina murder investigation. The information is still coming in, but she has already been to the police station once." He paused and the screen cut to some shaky footage of the blonde model being escorted to a marked police car outside of the Paris.
"As you can see she has a black garment, reportedly her date's shirt, over her hands, but she is very obviously handcuffed. We are waiting now for the officers to come back out. Our correspondent Trent Maitland is at the scene, Trent?" The screen cut again toanother man standing outside of one of Vegas's many hotels. He had a microphone and hair so securely gelled in place a tornado wouldn't have moved it. "We're here, waiting at a side door for members of the LVPD to come out, it should be any second."
Now very interested, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Just as the reporter had said, the door opened and cops did come out. There were three women, to be specific: an older blonde, followed by a brunette and a black-clad blonde with a toothpick in her mouth. The reporters, there were several there, started yelling questions at them.
The local reporters knew names and were the quickest off the block. "Ms.Willows, is Alex Dupree a suspect in the recent string of unsolved Male Mutilator killings?" Another reporter elbowed around: "Detective Curtis, is it true that the LVPD has refused the FBI's help, again?" A third, and apparently most blood-thirsty reporter, all but jumped in the three's path: "Ms. Sidle, is it true that you and Alex Dupree were lovers?" At that point, the blonde, Detective Curtis, stepped in front of the obviously-shocked brunette. "No comment." She pushed the reporter aside roughly. "The LVPD, the Crime Lab and no one associated with them have a comment at this time. There will be a press conference at a later time and we will have a comment then." She sounded pissed, but that hardly stopped the onslaught of questions, most of them aimed at the brunette, Sidle.
Studying forgotten, she stood up. She remembered them now, Sara Sidle and Detective Curtis, they had come to talk to her after the meeting. They had shown her pictures and asked questions. She had also met Alex Dupree. It was a small, small world after all. The television was going over the facts of the case and she took the remote off of the coffee table and flipped the channel over to the local news. All of the local affiliate stations were running the story, as was CNN. They had even dubbed her the Male Mutilator.
No, she scowled as the Headline News anchor started a new segment. They were calling Alex Dupree the Male Mutilator. Jesus, what kind of nickname was that anyway? The Boston Strangler, Son of Sam, the Green River Killer the Zodiac, and all Vegas's finest could come up with was the Mutilator? It sounded like a pro wrestler's claim to fame. Even BTK had gotten a better break. It wasn't Alex Dupree though. She doubted Alex Dupree, as pretty as she may be, could kill someone. She didn't know the rush of pain, of power, of passion that enveloped you when you killed someone. She couldn't possibly understand watching a rapist's face contort in pain when he suddenly realized he was on the receiving end. There was power there, the sweet tang of justice and revenge for every woman the sickos of the world had hurt. There in lay the wide gap of inequality. Cops didn't understand what it was like, not in the least. They never felt powerless or alone or scared. Mother had told them that. Cops let rapists run free, and in prison, men raped each other, just because they didn't want to stop themselves. She smiled at that thought. Mother had taught her how to punish them; she hadn't told her how heady a rush it would be. The first kill had been an accident. The wrestler was big, solid with muscle, and she hadn't been exactly sure how much to use. The next time though, with the perv, that had been something altogether different. She had just moved and it had been like the heavy candlestick had jumped into her hands. She had just kept hitting him. There was blood, so much of it. The shower had washed it off of her body, but she could remember the texture and smell, how it had covered her skin and speckled into her dark hair and shown up so vividly against her teeth.
What did Alex Dupree know about that? The model had said she'd been raped, but she had never been on the giving end. She was all talk and no action, unless there was a camera involved. She was just one of Mother's tools, her weapons in the great battle against the sick men who thought they could get away with what they did to women. She was proud of what she had done, she had killed two rapists and saved God only knew how many women and girls.
On the other hand, though, no one suspected her. All of Vegas, and the country, maybe even the world, was looking at Alex Dupree. They thought she did it. Sidle and Curtis and whoever else had no idea. Cops were dumb creatures, ignorant and easily lead. That was right. She was just a college girl; she'd lost a good friend. A friend and ally: she and Erica had made their weapons together, had followed the directions and figured it out. Erica had been a casualty of the war that all women fought. At least she had taken that piece of shit with her.
The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. She went to her small room and sat on her mussed bed. The lock box that held her weapon of choice lay open and she looked down at it. Guns, knives, fists, everyone had their own way. Let Alex Dupree take the fall, it would allow her more time to hone and perfect her craft. Mother would agree; it would be a blow, but TAN would recover. Models were a dime a dozen, well trained daughters of the movement were much harder to come by. She was a holy assassin of sorts, and she intended to keep taking out rapists. She picked up her latex and steel equalizer and smiled down at it. As mother had told her in one of the email newsletters for the special members of TAN: If not her, who? If not now, when?